


Nightmares

by HathorAroha



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: F/M, Nightmares, Post-Curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 09:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HathorAroha/pseuds/HathorAroha
Summary: Everything is fine and dandy up to a week after the curse has been lifted, but when the festivities ease and everyone calms down from the excitement, the nightmares of the curse return to the prince.





	Nightmares

Sure, the prince came smiling through to greet old friends, Belle at his arm, happy and joyous in the embrace of safe daylight, when the sun lit the land and sky. Sure, Adam’s bright blue eyes shone with relief and delight as he saw every one of his servants and the visiting musician and singer had all been restored like nothing happened. Sure, he joined everyone in a huge spontaneous feast of celebration with villagers and castle denizens alike, Madame de Garderobe singing a thousand operas into the encroaching night, the stars themselves burning bright with their own silent music and song. Sure, the prince took part in eating all the cheese souffles and pie and pudding _en flambe_ he could manage, joking and laughing with those he loved.

The next few days blurred into each other with festivity, love, joy, and renewed hope and vigour like the castle had never seen before. Nevertheless, after a week everyone had calmed down, though still warm with delight to be human again, the castle festivities and song falling quiet for the next little while. Even Adam was relieved when the days and nights of endless entertainment had come to a close—somehow he found himself wanting the peace and quiet that he had not had at the castle since becoming human again, for good.

But it was the end of the festivities that allowed the shadows of dark dreams to fidget in his unconscious, restless from waiting until the right time to haunt the young prince. Terrible dreams that had not visited him since the curse was lifted were eager to return to jolt him into sweat-laden wakefulness, violent shivers quaking in his very bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one of those awful nightmares that had threatened his sleep for the first few years of his curse. Then, over time, they had slithered away into the shadows, seeming to have fled forever in the remaining countless years before he met Belle and, eventually, through the rediscovery of what it meant to love and be kind, be fully human once more.

The first dream came in a haze of forgotten colours and jumbled faces, yet nonetheless woke him up with a great flinch, his legs involuntarily kicking back against Belle’s shins—mercifully, she kept on sleeping, undisturbed. His heart hammered a thousand beats against his ribcage, eyes flicking about the darkened room, waiting for his body to stop quaking with whatever terrible story had been threaded in the dream, all forgotten in the split-second between slumber and wakefulness. He tried to block his ears against the ghost of his father’s harsh words the first time the prince had come to him with a bad dream in long-ago childhood.

_Only weak boys and men are scared of nightmares. Only girls and women cry over scary dreams. Tell anyone, you will be judged as a weak link in the chain. They will laugh at you as they throw you off the throne. Keep them to yourself._

No, no matter what, he wasn’t going to tell Belle. He trusted her, but his father’s words still shrieked in his ears. He knew without a doubt she did love him, but what if she left him after hearing of his bad dreams? What if he saw him in this state, shaking and perspiring?

_It's only one dream,_ he tried to soothe himself as he rolled over, his back against Belle’s, _It won’t happen again. Just a one-off happenstance._

With that, he snuggled under his blankets, falling asleep to the secure warmth of Belle sleeping by his side with not a troubled breath.

The next night, he found himself in a dream watching through a window into the ballroom. He had to be impossibly high up, somehow hovering like a hummingbird or bee, outside the tower where the ballroom was located. But as with the nature of dreams, he paid no heed to this, watching Plumette and Lumiere dancing together arm in arm to the sound of violins and a harpsichord. He flinched as Plumette started screaming, pushing herself forcefully out of Lumiere’s arms, hands flying up to her hair now engulfed with fire. Lumiere frantically tried to pat out the flames, even though his hands had already become candlesticks with impossibly bright, angry flames upon the wicks. One touch and Plumette’s dress exploded in flame.

It was his own shout that woke Adam up, heart pounding so hard he was sure it should explode from his chest as the flames had from Lumiere’s wicks in his nightmare. Pulling out one shaking hand from within his twisted sheets, he rested it upon his damp forehead, stars popping before his eyes in the haze of wooziness. With straggled breath, he tried to raise himself up to a sitting position, hoping to ease some of the nausea if he put his head on his knees. Pulling up his knees he let his head drop forward on them, closing his eyes, only to see wildfire in a ballroom. Eyes snapping open, he looked around wildly until he spotted a sliver of moon shining outside his window. Small crescent of light it may have been, it nevertheless dampened the flames of the terrible visage of Plumette exploding into flames like a feather in a roaring fireplace.

Again the ghost of his father in his distant memories, again he clenched his eyes shut tight.

_You are a man, not a child. A strong prince never shows he’s afraid._

But oh God, he was afraid now. Afraid of going back to sleep, afraid of what other tortures his dreams would show him. If he could never have to sleep again, he would gladly take it. If he closed his eyes for longer than a moment, he would see Plumette and Lumiere dancing until the latter’s hands melted into candlesticks with burning wicks that caught the former’s hair alight, until she was consumed with fire. If he closed his eyes, he would hear clocks chiming every time Cogsworth spoke, until his eyes became gears and until his speech was measured in ticks and tocks. If he dared pull damp eyelids over frightened eyes now, he would see Chapeau as a cloak hanger snapped in half, only to look down and see him human again, spine broken, the man dead.

For these were all terrible visages he had witnessed in his own private nightmares as a Beast, drawing him even more into his own bitter loneliness, knowing he could not ever tell a soul. Not unless he wanted to be laughed at, not if he wanted to be judged as unworthy of being a prince, of being respected as a man, just as his father lectured him time after time.

He flinched again on hearing a clock chime the hour; he counted five chimes. Only five in the morning. He knew right now the castle cook would be starting to wake up to prepare to cook the first meal of the day—a hearty, hot meal that Adam did not desire for at all right now.

Trying not to disturb Belle too much in her sleep, he pulled and yanked on the sheets wrapped tightly about himself. They were slightly damp from his sweat, as were his night clothes. He was amazed Belle still slept soundly, not suspecting a thing. Perhaps it had been the excitement of the last few days that left her in blissful sleep until the sun rose through the windows again just in time for her to dress for breakfast.

The last of his sheets yanked away from him, the prince pushed himself up onto shaky legs that nevertheless still held him upright without faltering. He closed his eyes for a moment as he let the warm night air wash over his face, soothing in its whispery touch. But it still did not let him feel safe enough to go back to sleep.

_Maybe if I walk around a little._

As quiet as possible, the prince padded out of the bedroom into the dimly-lit hallways of the castle. Only a few of the candles were lit, burning low, throwing eerie shadows upon the walls. Chilly floor tiles sent goose-bumps up through his legs as he stepped over them in bare feet.  Even after a week, the prince forgot to bring with him a woollen robe or comfortable warm shoes if he were to go for a stroll in the cool pre-dawn morning. He had been so used to his fur keeping him warm as a Beast that it never crossed his mind he might be colder sans lots of thick hair all over his body now.

But he did not wish to return to the bedroom where his nightmares might be waiting for him. Instead, he let his feet lead him down to the kitchens where he knew a fire was always lit, maintained by servants through the night until the cook came down and took over for most of the day, Lumiere sometimes taking over as well when the chef wasn’t so busy or was taking some time off to relax throughout the day.

_If I warm up by the stove fire, perhaps I can go back to sleep a little while._

Descending the stone steps spiralling down into the kitchen, quiet but for the crackling fire in the stove, Adam’s shoulders relaxed a little, but the tension did not go away, still knotted in his taut muscles.

Inside the kitchen, he saw there was no one save for him and the burgeoning fire in the stove feeding on wood and paper to keep it piping hot and healthy through the day and much of the night. Perhaps the cook had gone out for a quick fresh air, a walk, and a couple of slices of bread and cheese. At least for now, Adam could be alone with his thoughts.

Lowering himself into a finely crafted chair pulled away from the round table with stacks of dishes waiting to be put away or washed, the prince leaned back in the seat, allowing himself to sink into the bracing heat of the kitchen—it always seemed to be hot in here, no matter how low the fire burned. At least here, he didn’t have to worry about waking Belle should he be visited by another terrible dream, forcing him to wake with a shout and tremble. Probably another half hour’s nap in here and he would be sure to be fully refreshed and ready for another day of business.

The stove fire’s crackling and snapping faded away as another tapestry of imagery began to play out in his head, performing with innocuous intent. He found himself walking in the rose gardens his own mother had helped to create and plant many years ago, even before he was born. She had nurtured it, showed her son how to keep the flowers healthy and happy, and he had never failed to ensure they grew strong.

A small hand slipped into his, tugging at his arm, and, looking down, he saw it was Chip, the only son of Mrs Potts. He didn’t say much to the prince beyond a cheery “hullo, Master!” The prince heard himself responding in kind, asking if he was enjoying the maze of roses. Chip tugged again, more firmly, as though he wished for the prince to follow him. Sensing the child’s impatient excitement, the prince let Chip lead him to wherever it was he wanted them to go. Was it some new discovery or treasure? Did he find a lost and bewildered frog or a nest of baby birds among the roses?

“Come on! Come and see the baby birds!”

The prince smiled in his dream, charmed by the boy’s obvious enthusiasm. He followed Chip at a brisk walk deeper and deeper into the maze of the rose garden, giving only a brief notice to how the day seemed to be getting darker and darker, though the sky stayed bright and the sun shone with its usual power.

_How far away is the bird’s nest?_ The prince found himself wondering.

And on they still went to wherever the baby birds were nesting. Stopping to catch his breath for a moment, the prince now glanced up directly at the sun in the way one only could do in dreams without the consequence of blindness. The sun was no longer a burning orb, but now a thick crescent, thinning even as he watched.

_Eclipse,_ he thought, _and where are the birds?_

He ran on to catch up with Chip, who had not slowed down a mite, not even looking back to see if Adam still followed him into the encroaching darkness.

“Chip! Where are you?”

There he was—he found the little boy, disappearing around a corner of the garden.

“Baby birds are here!”

Finally, the baby birds! Intrigued now, the prince turned the corner only to see Chip trip over an unseen root, going flying until he smacked into the earth, shattering into a million pieces like a porcelain teacup.

“CHIP!”

A delayed, chilling shatter reached his ears, and the light abruptly went out, throwing the world into darkness, more than an eclipsed sun ought to. Chip had disappeared into the earth, and so too had the soil, the roses, everything. In what seemed to take less time than the blink of an eye, he found himself standing over a table in the castle kitchens. How did he get here so fast from the garden? It was not possible to move that fast. He heard voices—a woman’s and a man’s—and someone in front of him. What were they saying? His name? Adam…Master…that was his name. That was what the servants called him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, standing frozen, arms outstretched, too late to save Chip. All he could feel was his heart pounding in his chest, the world suddenly feeling it was shifting to the side, breaths shallow and rapid.

“Get him in a chair,” he heard a woman’s voice, so far away, so familiar, “look after him, Chapeau, I’ll brew him some strong tea.”

Gentle hands came up from behind him, landing on his upper arms, pulling him back down into a chair, the prince slumping forward, letting his face sink into his own hands. Chapeau’s hands moved up to rest on his shoulders, gripping them with firm consolation.

He let himself just sit there for what felt like hours, palms against his closed eyes, feeling the dampness of his forehead under his fingertips.

_A dream. A dream. It was a dream. Oh god. Why?_

“Master?”

Though his voice still sounded a million miles away, the prince’s mind cleared enough now to recognise Chapeau’s tones.

“It’s alright, Master, it was a dream. Mrs Potts is brewing you strong tea right now.”

All the prince could do was nod, sucking a breath into reluctant lungs.

“Here she comes now.”

He heard the distinct clatter of a teacup on its saucer as someone—Mrs Potts he assumed—set it on the table. Chapeau’s calming grip disappeared from his shoulders, followed immediately by a chair being pulled back, and someone sitting down in it. Then someone else’s hands—softer this time—tugging his own back from his face, and opening his eyes, he looked up to see Mrs Potts standing in front of him, eyes full of sympathy and concern.

“Master, you just had a nightmare. But you’re awake now and it’s all over. Here, have a sip.”

Letting go of his shaking hands, she picked up the teacup and saucer, handing it to the prince. Raising a hand, he cautiously wrapped his fingers around the cup, bringing it up to his lips, taking the smallest of sips. She was right about its bracing strength as he discovered when his sip slipped down his throat. Its bracing nature chased away a portion of the darkness that had overcome him from the awful nightmare, its visions still dancing before his mind’s eye.

“Better?”

He managed the smallest of nods in response, not quite trusting himself to speak yet.

“Good. Now just catch your breath and we’ll talk.”

_No, I can’t talk about my dreams. Not to anyone._

He caught Mrs Potts eyeing him closely, as though to try and read whatever was in his thoughts.

“There is no need to be ashamed, Adam,” she assured him in a softer tone than usual, but all the prince could hear was his name, how it sounded just the way his own late mother would have said it, “Everyone has had at least one awful dream in their entire lifetimes. You are _not_ alone, and you will not be judged for it. And if you are, bring them to me, I will be more than willing to have a long discussion with them.”

“Yes,” Chapeau conceded, “I have had one or two myself.”

“Really?” the prince asked.

Chapeau shrugged off-hand. “Woke up unable to move in the middle of the night and completely stiff. Could only move my eyes, really. Thought I’d turned into a cloak hanger again. It went away after a few minutes, thank God.”

The prince’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry you had that experience.”

“Cogsworth had a vivid one about a week ago,” Mrs Potts added, “Where he was turning back into a clock and woke up unable to talk or breathe for about a minute. Said it was the same sensation he’d felt before becoming inanimate, at least for a temporary time. And I myself had a dream of looking through lots of teacups trying to look for Chip, but none of them had faces, so I could not tell.” Mrs Potts paused as if to consider her words. “Mine is quite tame compared to some others’ dreams I’ve heard about.”

The prince wasn’t sure how to feel about all this—more guilty because if it weren’t for the curse, they wouldn’t be going through this too. Or relieved, because he wasn’t alone with such terrible visages in slumber after all.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked Mrs Potts, before raising the teacup to take another sip.

The woman laid her soft, warm hand over his, squeezing gently. “So you know you’re not the only one suffering bad dreams about the curse, and you know there is no shame in having or talking about them. Understand?”

Adam straightened up again in his chair, recalling what his father had told him in the past about nightmares. After a couple of deep breaths, between which he drained the rest of the tea, he felt ready to talk again, but not of his dreams—rather of what he had been taught by his late father since childhood about such nightmares. By the end, Mrs Potts had pursed her lips, but her hand remained gentle on his. Chapeau scraped back his chair and leaped to his feet, seeming even taller than his six foot self in his clear indignation as he paced back and forth over the floor.

“If you may pardon me, Master,” Mrs Potts began as she seated herself in a chair next to the prince, “I believe he is completely wrong, and he led you down a terrible path from childhood.  I beg pardon if I offend you, but—”

“No, no, Mrs Potts, your words do not offend me,” the prince hastened to interrupt, not wanting to make her feel like she—or the other servants—should have to hide their real thoughts anymore. “From now on—” here, he nodded over at Chapeau, whom had stopped pacing and was watching them from where he was standing, “If you wish to be honest and speak up on some problem, do not be afraid to speak.”

A bright smile from Mrs Potts as she drew her hand back to her lap, clasping her own together. “Thank you, Master.”

Chapeau added his own thanks to hers.

“As I was saying, I feel he was terribly wrong, and to make someone not share nightmares brought on by trauma because it may be perceived as “weak”—well.” Mrs Potts pursed her lips again, folding her arms with an irritated tap of her foot. “You have as much a right as any of us to have terrible dreams about the curse. For heaven’s sake, Adam, it’s only been a week.”

“Just over a week,” Chapeau corrected, “But yes, she speaks true, Master.”

“This is not the sort of thing that blows over overnight. It will take time for us all to heal and leave it far behind us in the past. True love may have broken the spell, but only time can heal us all. I presume you have not told Belle of your dreams.”

“No,” the prince admitted.

“Well, I can tell you right now: she will never judge you for something like this. She is a sweet girl at heart, I can promise you that.”

_Belle—is she still asleep? Or is she now waking up and wondering where to I wandered?_

“I don’t think she knows I’m down here right now,” Adam thought aloud.

“Why don’t you go back to her? Breakfast won’t be for another couple of hours or so.”

Adam considered this, surprised now that the last nightmare now seemed like it had been hours ago, and he wasn’t feeling so sick and shaky anymore.

_Perhaps Mrs Potts is right,_ he mused, reflecting on how much it _had_ helped talking with other confidants about the bad dreams that had touched most, if not all, of those who had been under the curse for the past countless years.

When he stood up, Mrs Potts followed suit, still looking at him with an encouraging expression. He made up his mind right there and then, for she _was_ right in her judgement that Belle would never judge him for any nightmares related to the terrible curse the castle had been under. After all, not even two weeks had passed yet since the spell had been lifted by true love.

“You’re right,” he conceded, “I will go to Belle now, if she is awake yet.”

“And if anything happens—”

“I can talk to her without fear,” he finished for her.

“Or just knowing she’s there next to you may be enough, now you know there’s no shame. _Is_ there?”

Finally, the prince managed the smallest of smiles—faint it might be, but still genuine. Not wasting another moment, he stepped forward to wrap his arms around her in a grateful embrace, feeling her reciprocate the gesture.

“Thank you, Mrs Potts.”

“Any time, dear.” Mrs Potts gave him a gentle pat on the back with a hand, before drawing out of the hug. “Now go to Belle. We will see you at breakfast.”

With a final nod of thanks, the prince made his way up the steps winding out of the kitchen, his heart much lighter than before, his soul more at ease now than it had in a long time. Wandering the long hallways back to his bedroom where Belle slumbered, he found himself yearning to slip back under the covers of his bed, feel the warmth of her body as he drew her into his arms, her heartbeat against his.

_Belle will understand,_ he assured himself, _She always has, and always will be there, forevermore._

 


End file.
